


Everybody Has a Plan

by Got_Well_Soon



Series: Skate AU [7]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-02 12:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10218284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Got_Well_Soon/pseuds/Got_Well_Soon
Summary: Chloe joins a boxing gym. What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

A pleasant Spring day, so they decided to walk to the studio. Not especially eager to start work, Max and Chloe followed a meandering route, exploring unfamiliar blocks of the commercial district. It was not a charming neighborhood; broad streets separated shabby, boxy one- and two-story warehouses, wholesalers, workshops. But, it was cheap.

Turning a corner, they passed in front of something different. Big windows looked in on a well-lit space filled with mats, weights, punching bags, and a roped-off ring. Young women in shorts and tank tops, hands wrapped in tape and gloves, variously hammered on the bags, jumped rope, or punched at the air, hands darting out in quick blurs of motion. In the ring, two women in headgear circled each other, fists up, probing each others’ defenses with quick jabs.

Max slowed, looking through the glass, her photographer’s eye instinctively finding a dozen good shots, strong women showing their mettle in a male-dominated sport. An aesthetic she wanted to do more of, even though sports photography wasn’t really her thing.

Beside her, Chloe came to a full stop, also staring in the window. “Huh, all women. Young, fit, half dressed…”

Max rolled her eyes, crossed her arms. “You’re hopeless. Go on, admire the merchandise, I’ll wait.”

“I’m sure your interest is _purely_ professional.” Chloe watched a while, then abruptly made for the door. “I think I need to check this place out.” She swung the door open, and they waded into a thick soup of warm air and the metallic smell of fresh sweat.

There was one man in the place, big, middle-aged, mostly bald with short-cropped grey hair, wearing a red track suit. Obviously the coach. He stood below the ring, calling out a steady stream of instructions to the two sparring women. After Max and Chloe had stood gawking for a minute, he sauntered over.

“Can I help you ladies?”

“I want to do this,” Chloe blurted out. “I want to join. How does this work?”

“You wanna fight?” the man asked, a faded east-coast accent coloring his voice. Maybe Jersey.

“Yeah. Totally.”

Max looked up at Chloe, surprised. Chloe wanted to fight?

The man continued his interrogation. “You ever been in a fight?”

“Ah, not as such, no. But I have hope for the future!”

“You ever seen a fight?”

“I have totally seen boxing before.” Chloe held up her fists, threw a couple of mock punches.

“Super. But, ah, you’ll want to keep your elbows a little closer together. I coach women in the mornings, men the rest of the day. That work for you?”

“Sure.”

The man turned to Max, who was standing wide-eyed, caught off guard by Chloe’s sudden enthusiasm. “And what about you, missy?”

“I’m just a spectator—”

“Spectate all you like, but do me a favor and do it from outside the gym, k?”

“And a concerned wife.”

“Ah. Super. I have tremendous respect for wives. I’m even married to one!” The man guffawed at this joke which he had probably told a thousand times. Max just stared up at him.

“Is this really… safe?” she asked.

“Safe as any other sport. Maybe safer. You run? You look like a runner.”

“Sometimes.” Max wasn’t hardcore about it, but a brisk jog around Seattle’s hills was her preferred exercise.

“You run in the city? Wear headphones?”

“Usually… yeah.”

“Decent chance you’ll get hit by a car, turn your insides to hamburger. Bad fuckin’ situation. Won’t happen in here.”

“Huh.”

“Mostly we just do drills, when we spar we use headgear and keep it light. You’re usually only taking heavy punches in actual matches, and not everybody competes. Even when they do… I mean, you don’t see a lot of KOs in women’s boxing. And you won’t find a better way to get in shape.”

Chloe was looking at Max, excited. Max shrugged. “Seems cool.”

“Yes! Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee!” Chloe again raised her fists, threw more punches.

“Everyone knows that line,” said the coach. “The one to keep in mind is, ‘Everybody has a plan until they get hit.’”

* * *

Max stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth. She spit and rinsed, looked back up to the mirror, saw Chloe appear behind her wearing sweat pants and a sports bra. Today was a gym day, apparently. With her short-cropped blonde hair and increasingly muscular shoulders, she sure looked like a fighter. She put her arms around Max, met her gaze in the mirror.

Max reached back, felt one of Chloe’s shoulders. “Damn, Chloe, check out these guns! Never thought you’d get so cut.”

Chloe grinned. “Pretty hot, right?”

“Looking a little G.I. Jane though. Just need some dog tags to complete the cliche.”

“Yeah. I think it’s time to let my hair grow. Ooh! A mohawk!”

“No.”

“A faux hawk?”

“Maybe.”

“Good enough for me. So… there’s a match with another gym coming up, coach says I’m ready to get in the ring. Thinking of signing up.”

Max felt a pang of trepidation. Amateur fights were short, and she knew Chloe would be matched against someone at her level, but still… a real fight. Real punches. Real knockouts. “What do you get if you win?” she asked.

“Nothing but glory and the adulation of my fans. Or… fan, anyway.”

Max swallowed her concerns. Chloe wanted this. “You have the full support of your loyal fanbase.”

“Awesome.” Chloe squeezed Max tight, nuzzled her neck, tickling her. Max giggled, tried halfheartedly to get away, but did not succeed.

* * *

The women’s match was in the morning and was to be held, conveniently, at her own gym. Full of nervous energy, Chloe had gone extra early, while Max decided to sleep in, pledging to jog over in time for the fight.

One of the first to arrive, Chloe watched people filter in as she warmed up. Soon enough the gym was feeling crowded, with fighters from both gyms, plus a small gaggle of spectators. Mostly friends and family, a handful of the male students, a couple of randos. A big whiteboard held the list of matchups, more than a dozen fights. Chloe was early on the list, and she was to fight a woman named Sarah, a student at the other gym who she’d never met. Should she introduce herself? Unsure of the proper etiquette for the situation, she looked around at the other women, trying to guess their weights. Which one was Sarah? But nobody else was really talking, just doing warm-up exercises in relative silence. Chloe wasn’t the only one who was nervous. She imitated the others and kept to herself.

Soon enough they called for the first fighters. Two bantamweights, tiny compared to Chloe but solidly buff nonetheless. Fast and light on their feet. The referee joined them in the ring, an older guy in a blue shirt, towering above the women, his face a mask of stern concentration. The women touched gloves, the bell rang and the fight began.

It was over in the second round. One boxer kept falling down every time she took a hard hit; she got right back up, but on the third they called it a TKO. A glass jaw, they called that. Chloe hoped she could keep her balance, or, better yet, avoid taking direct hits to the face. The odds on that were probably not good; she knew she tended to focus on throwing punches and neglect her defense.

Another pair of fighters took the ring. This one went the full four rounds, lots of dodging and weaving, some good form on display. Chloe spent the time finishing her warm up. Where was Max? She was usually the punctual half of the pair. Chloe looked around the crowd, checking the back corners, looking for a telltale camera lens.

“Chloe, you’re up! Pay attention!” Her coach’s voice.

Fuck. What’s the point of being a badass if your wife’s not there to see it? She climbed up into the ring, bounced up and down to keep herself warm while her opponent climbed up. Sarah was a little shorter, a little stockier, a black ponytail behind her head. Standing in the ring, Chloe felt the adrenaline really take hold, making her feel twitchy and unsteady. This was it, a real fight.  
  
They squared off, touched gloves, and the bell rang.

Chloe kept her hands high, peering over them at her unfamiliar opponent. They circled, drawing slowly closer, until Chloe, blessed with long reach, judged herself in range and tossed out a quick jab, biffing uselessly against Sarah’s forearms. No counterpunch came, so she jabbed again, this time tapping the woman on the jaw. One of the defending gloves had dropped, and she was closer.

Pow! A heavy blow landed solidly on Chloe’s body, sending a ripple of pain through her diaphragm. She counterpunched reflexively, caught her opponent on the nose, buying time to step back, draw a ragged breath. Not off to a good start. Where the hell was Max? She stole a glance at the small audience.

And was rewarded by a thudding jab on the temple. She looked back just in time to catch a solid right hook on the nose. It hurt. Her eyes watered, and she blinked repeatedly, again stepping back, pulling her gloves in close.

She heard her coach yell from the edge of the ring. “Chloe! Focus! You’re in outer space up there!”

Right. She feinted right, then stepped left, landing a solid body blow with her left hand, hearing her opponent grunt. She swung with the right, but her target danced away, counterattacking on her right side. She brought her gloves up, lowered her head, but a hard hit came right through the middle, tagging her square on the forehead. She needed to be faster. Halfway through the first round and she was already losing.

* * *

The bell rang, signaling the end of round four. Chloe dropped her hands and stood back, breathing hard, dull, thumping pain in her face, body, and shoulders. She’d spent eight minutes being dumber and slower than her opponent, and wasn’t surprised when the judge help up his card. The referee briefly held Sarah’s hand aloft, and then it was time to let somebody else get beat up for a while.

Chloe ducked through the ropes, shakily hopped down. Her coach gave her a sour look, then turned his attention back to the ring. Chloe felt like she’d climbed a mountain and then been hurled off of it by the resident yeti. Her legs, shoulders, arms, and hands had been replaced by lead weights, while her head and face had been pounded to pulp. Maybe it was for the best that Max hadn’t made it in time to see that.

But where was she? Another fight began above Chloe’s head, unheeded. One of her fellow students approached, gave her a sympathetic look, and started to untie her right glove. Chloe gestured away, toward her gym bag.

“No, get my phone. See if there’s anything on there.”

The woman rummaged through the bag, came back with the phone. “Voicemail,” she said, then held the phone to Chloe’s ear.

“Hello, this is the emergency department at Harborside Hospital, calling to inform you that Maxine Price was admitted this morning and is unaccompanied…”

Chloe’s exhausted body tensed, her heart suddenly racing again. She batted the phone away, shouting, “ _Get these fucking gloves off me!_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

They'd given her something in the ambulance; it took the edge off, but now everything seemed so far away. Her leg still screamed incoherence, a confusing jumble of signals that she couldn't make sense of. It was probably still attached. This was less distressing than her shoulder, which in addition to hurting was very clearly _wrong_ and entirely inoperable. These twin novas of agony drowned out all else. She was just enduring, waiting through it, hoping for things to get better.

A voice emerged from the background sounds, mid-sentence, close to her. "… don't understand why the EMT's can't just do this at the scene." Then, louder. "Miss Price? Maxine, can you look at me?"

With effort, she opened her eyes. Fluorescent lights, a middle-aged blonde woman in a white lab coat leaning over her, her face set in businesslike concentration.

"I'm not going to lie, this is going to hurt, but it'll be quick. Can you open your mouth for me?" Max did so, and the woman put something tough and rubbery between her teeth, then looked up at someone Max couldn't see, and nodded. Strong hands gripped her, and she heard a crunching pop as her shoulder snapped back into place. Her back arched, straining against the straps holding her down, and she crushed the thing between her teeth. But even as her body reacted, the pain started to fade, reduced to an echo, the afterimage of a flashbulb in darkness. She felt a single tear roll away from her right eye, down the side of her head.

The woman looked back down at her, plucked the squashed rubber thing from her mouth. "That should feel a little better." As she spoke, her hands moved under Max's shirt, the cold disk of a stethoscope sliding around. "Ok. Maxine, can you tell me if there's someone we should call?"

 _Chloe._ Her mouth moved, soundless. The woman above her pursed her lips, waiting. She forced herself to form the word. "…Chloe."

"Chloe?" The woman looked away to someone else. "Got a Chloe?"

A man's voice. "Yup, got it."

"Ok," the woman nodded down at Max, then moved away, out of her field of view. She felt a gentle touch above the flare of pain in her leg. "Definitely surgical." The woman re-appeared above Max. "Maxine, we need to operate on your leg. The longer we wait, the greater the risk of complications. Ok?"

Another struggle to speak. "…ok." Max closed her eyes again.

"Get her prepped."

A mask pressed against her face. Then there was nothing.

* * *

Chloe stood at the front desk, flushed, breathing hard. They couldn't discuss a patient's condition over the phone, they'd said. Well, here she was, and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion. She thought this was supposed to be an emergency room. For emergencies. There wasn't much evidence of that. The man behind the desk finally finished his extended interrogation of his computer. "Says here she just came in a little while ago but I don't see… ah, she's in surgery right now. Sorry, looks like you've just got to sit tight."

"Surgery?! For what?!"

"Um…" He squinted at the screen. "they haven't done the paperwork yet. She had some x-rays. Not sure what the surgery's for."

"Seriously? Do you even know what happened to her?"

"Says… hit by a car. That's what the ambulance driver said anyway. Listen, I can send you up to her assigned room. Her chart will be there and the doctor can fill you in when the surgery's done." The man wrote a room number on a card, handed it across the desk.

"How long's that going to take?"

He scratched his head, shrugged. "You never know but, generally, trauma surgery doesn't take too long."

"Great," she said through gritted teeth, "Thanks for your help." They had Max in here, somewhere, were doing something to her, for some reason, and Chloe was just supposed to put her feet up and chill while they did it. Wonderful. She slung her gym bag over her shoulder and headed for the elevators, suddenly shivering. She was still only wearing her boxing getup. There was a cart of neatly folded orange blankets in the hall; she grabbed one and wrapped it around herself. Hopefully they weren't bound for an orphanage or something.

Max's room was empty when she arrived. She dropped her bag on the floor, dug out her hoodie and sweat pants, put them on, sat down in the lone, uncomfortable chair. Then there was nothing to do but sit and stew, breath the filtered, antiseptic, distinctly hospital air, try to discern the function of the inscrutable machinery around the edges of the room. Fucking car accidents. The bane of her existence, apparently.

Fortunately she didn't have to wait too long before a woman in a white lab coat walked in, carrying a clipboard. "Hi, I'm Dr. Matthews," she said, extending a hand. "You're Miss Price's…"

"Wife. Can you tell me what the hell is going on? She gets hit by a car and the rest seems to be a big fucking mystery."

"Ah, yes, sorry about that." The doctor pulled a rolling stool from the corner of the room, sat facing Chloe. "First off, Maxine is doing fine and should make a full recovery."

Chloe exhaled noisily, nodded. They could have told her that at the front desk. "So what happened?"

Dr. Matthews looked down the clipboard. "Looks like it was a hit and run. Ambulance brought her in, I don't have any other information about the accident."

"Fucking assholes."

"Quite. So, both the fibula and tibia of her left leg suffered oblique fractures…"

"Which means…?"

"I'm guessing the car's bumper hit her from the side, just below the knee." The doctor gestured at a point on her own shin. "The bones in her left calf snapped like twigs. Lots of collateral damage but at least everything stayed inside."

Chloe winced. "Ok."

"Also, her right shoulder was dislocated. We set that as soon as she arrived. There's some road rash there so I imagine this is a result of being thrown onto the pavement."

"Ok."

The doctor looked back at the clipboard. "In addition, she got a pretty good bump on the head, likely some minor whiplash in her neck, superficial scrapes, and probably any number of bruises to top it all off. Still with me?"

Chloe eyes were wide and moist. She'd made the mistake of picturing the accident: the car slamming into Max, her leg crumpling, her body bouncing off the hood before landing hard on the rough pavement, her face a mask of terrified agony as she lay in the street, unable to get up, the car speeding off in the distance. With effort, she pushed the thought away, looked around the room for distraction, bounced her legs up and down. Maybe it hadn't been that bad. "Ok."

"Alright, the leg is the important thing here, so let's get to the surgery. We couldn't set it externally, so I made the call to go ahead and open her up. We fixed both bones with rods and pins, and put everything back where it's supposed to be. Here are some souvenirs." She pulled a manilla folder from the clipboard and handed it to Chloe.

"So no big deal then?"

The doctors face softened. "I wouldn't say that. Setting bones is easy. Now comes the hard part."

They discussed post-op care and long-term rehabilitation. The first few days, the doctor assured her, would be no fun for either of them.

After the doctor left, Chloe flipped open the folder. The first page was an x-ray, like a textbook image, the dim outline of Max's leg surrounding bright, obviously broken bones. Flipping to the next page, she found a grid of glossy photos of the inside of Max's leg. Red flesh, dark blood, white-pink bones, other bits and pieces and gobs of stuff she couldn't immediately identify. All held open by cruel-looking steel surgical implements. Chloe snapped the folder shut. Not what she needed just then.

Soon enough the door opened, and an orderly in green scrubs wheeled Max in, propped up on a rolling bed, blankets pulled up to her waist. "Max!" Chloe said, jumping up.

"Not yet, she'll be out for a while," the man said simply, and left.

Chloe looked her wife over. The color was gone from her skin, and her head was tipped back, her jaw slack. A bandage covered her right temple, where some of the hair had been shaved away, and she had the beginnings of a black eye. Her right arm hung in a sling, and the splint on her left leg projected huge, angular lumps under the blanket. She looked like a corpse, but was breathing steadily.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Chloe was the risk taker, Max was supposed to keep herself safe. Because Max could handle shit, while Chloe… she tried. She really tried. But she knew, at the end of the day, it was always Max's strength keeping her steady. When they'd been apart, Chloe had learned what her internal compass did without that powerful magnetic north. It spun in fucking circles.

She took Max's limp hand, sat by the bed, and waited.

* * *

Max's eyes opened, slowly. They darted around the room, finally landed on Chloe. "Chloe!" she exclaimed weakly, her voice a dry rasp. She started to reach out, then her eyes went wide and she emitted a high-pitched, breathy whine, like a wounded animal, grabbed her right shoulder with her left hand. She looked down at it, then back up at Chloe, frowning. "Chloe," she said again, still weak.

Chloe got up and gave Max the best hug she could, leaning down to press her cheek against Max's forehead. "Welcome back to the world of the living," she said.

"What… happened to me? Are my insides… hamburger?"

Chloe looked her wife in the eye, gripped her intact shoulder. "No, your insides are fine. Just your shoulder and your leg, and they fixed you up. You're going to be ok. We just have to take it easy for a while, is all." Chloe realized she was crying. "I'm going to take great care of you." She wiped a tear from her face.

Max stared at her through drug-dulled eyes. "Chloe don't… don't cry. We just… have to take it easy for a while." She smiled dazedly at Chloe for a minute. Then, "The fight! What happened?"

"I got my ass kicked. It doesn't matter."

"Too bad."

"There's always next time."

"Yeah." Another pause. "When do we get to go home?"

"A few hours, they said, for 'observation', whatever that means." They were alone in the hospital room and nobody seemed to be observing anything.

Reluctantly, Chloe left Max and used the time to go shopping. They needed supplies. Foldable wheelchair. Wall-mounted handle bars. A stool for the shower. Some loose sweats to fit over Max's new accessories. What had happened to the clothes she'd been wearing? Nobody seemed to know. The man behind the front desk hazarded a guess. "Probably had to cut 'em off. Would have been pretty well shredded and covered in blood anyway. They'd have thrown 'em out."

"Even her shoes?"

He shrugged. Chloe supposed that when walking in the door costs ten grand, nobody cares about a $100 pair of shoes. But insurance doesn't cover shoes. At least Max's camera was intact, somehow.

She got back to Max in time to see the doctor return. She looked over Max perfunctorily, asked her about her pain, unceremoniously whipped back the blanket to look at her leg. "No signs of infection. Looks like you're good to go home. If she gets a fever, bring her straight to the ER." And she was gone.

Another orderly appeared, gently loaded Max into the wheelchair, her splinted leg projecting straight outward. Chloe followed as he pushed her through the maze-like hospital, out the sliding front doors, and onto the sidewalk. "Ok," he said, "you guys have a good day," and disappeared back through the doors.

Chloe gripped the handles of the wheelchair, pausing to get her bearings. The hospital was in a dense area, with plenty of foot traffic. Parking meters lined the sidewalk; passers-by maneuvered around them. Max started to turn her head to look back at her, winced, gave up. "Not exactly a five-star experience, is it? How am I even going to get into the truck?"

Chloe honestly didn't know. "Carefully," she said, confidently. She pivoted the chair, careful to avoid slamming Max's leg into a parking meter, and headed for the truck.

As it turned out, getting Max into the passenger seat was pretty easy. Arriving at their apartment building, the first serious problem presented itself. They were one floor up, and there was no elevator. "I could hop," Max said, looking dubiously at the steep steps.

Chloe imagined having to return Max to the same hospital with yet more injuries. "No way, you'd kill yourself." she said.

"That's my line, dork. You're right though."

After some experimentation, they found that Max could sit on a step and use her good arm to lever herself up to the next. It worked, but it was exhausting. Finally at the top of the stairs, she listed to one side, leaning on the fading strength of her left arm.

"Here, lemme help you into your chair." Chloe unfolded the chair and, with a final effort, Max eased into it. It fit through the door, at least.

"First stop, shower," Max said. "I still feel like I've got asphalt all over me."

Easier said than done. Chloe worked fast, installing handlebars all over the bathroom, probably too many, and stuck the stool in the shower. She maneuvered Max onto it, her back to the shower head, slipped off her arm sling, and carefully, very carefully, helped her undress. This was the first time either of them had really gotten a good look at the damage, what the doctor had called "superficial scrapes".

"Holy shit, Max," Chloe said. "You look like you lost a fight with a bear. This must hurt like hell."

"It does. I'm cold, Chloe."

"Right."

They wrapped Max's splinted leg in a garbage bag to keep it dry, and Chloe started the shower. Warm water ran down Max's back, and she leaned back into it, eyes closed. Opening them again, she looked around. "I can't even reach the soap," she said, frowning.

"No need, babe. I got you."

"Oh."

Chloe undressed, stepped into the shower behind Max. Max didn't complain much, almost never cried, but Chloe knew it was bad when she got quiet like this. She regarded her wife's back, wet hair hanging down toward her slim waist, water running down and over the plastic stool. She looked so small, so fragile. Chloe picked up the soap, knelt beside her, and, gently, helped her wash. It was an oddly intimate thing, bathing someone else. The water re-opened encrusted wounds, carried wisps of blood down the drain. Max cooperated in silence, never said a word. But, as Chloe worked, moved her hands over Max's body, her frown slowly faded away.

Finally, Chloe stood behind her again, and began to wash her hair, massaging her scalp, slowly working shampoo through the long strands.

"Funny," Chloe said. "I haven't washed hair this long since I was a kid."

"Mmm…" Max hummed, leaning her head back. "You still have the touch."

"Great, if the jewelry business goes belly up maybe I can find work in a salon. Come on, let's rinse this out and get you dried off."

"Chloe…"

"Yeah Max?"

"Thank you. I feel a lot better."

"Thankfully. Guess this is the new routine."

Chloe toweled Max off, then got to work bandaging the wounds up and down her right side. "Reminds me of our first date," she said.

Max gave her a grim smile. "I think I prefer it when you're the one who's banged up."

"Yeah," said Chloe, looking up at her. "Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

Chloe wheeled Max into the bedroom and helped her into bed. She switched off the light and slid into her accustomed spot, sidling up next to Max. “What a fucked up day,” she said. Her voice was hollow, exhausted.

“No kidding. I’m so sorry, Chloe.”

“They didn’t tell me what was going on. I thought it might be… really bad.”

Max held her hand under the covers. “Yeah. But it wasn’t, it’s ok.”

“For what definition of ok?”

“It’s ok enough. Shhh, go to sleep.”

Soon enough Chloe’s breathing steadied; she was out. Max’s leg throbbed and she shifted uncomfortably. She stared at nothing, and waited a long time for sleep to come.

They fell into a rhythm. Chloe took care of everything, cooked their meals, kept the apartment clean (normally something she tended to ignore), and pushed Max around the park every day for some fresh air. She ignored her business almost entirely, leaving Max alone at home only to shop for groceries and, of course, keep up her gym schedule. Through everything… she wanted to win her next fight. She wanted Max to see her win.

And after a couple of weeks, a big day; Max got to quit wearing the arm sling. She flexed, experimentally. “Chloe, it hardly hurts! I’ve got my arm back!”

“Take it easy, they said. Not too much at once.”

“But I can take a selfie. Serving wench, fetch my camera!”

“Aye, my lady!”

* * *

A month later, Chloe held the door of the gym, and Max hobbled through, leaning heavily on a cane. While her leg was ostensibly healed, it still hurt to put her full weight on it. But each day was a little better. She stood amidst a small but growing crowd of students and spectators, while Chloe headed to the locker room to change, reappearing in nothing but a slim sports bra and very short shorts. Most of the women wore light tank tops in the ring, but Chloe couldn’t pass up such a good opportunity to show off her tattoos, and Max couldn’t blame her. Muscular as she was, she was still slender, long-limbed, statuesque and masterfully inked. Max ogled her shamelessly. She felt like Quasimodo in comparison, hunched sideways on her stupid cane. Not for much longer, she hoped.

Inevitably, Chloe’s coach wandered past. “Chloe. Ready?”

“Ready,” Chloe replied.

“No spacing out like last time.”

“No spacing out. Max is here.”

The coach looked at Max, took in the cane. “That’s new,” he said. “What happened there?”

She looked up at him. She almost couldn’t bear to say it. “Hit by a car.”

She could see him suppressing a laugh, but his eyes were sympathetic. “Tough break, kid. People need to learn to fuckin’ drive, am I right?”

She nodded. “Totally.”

“Well, you’re young, you’ll heal. See you in the ring, Chloe.”

Chloe’s fight was third on the roster. She went off to warm up, while Max took in the first fight. Two women circled each other in the ring. One wore red, the other blue, but otherwise they looked almost identical, lightweight shoes, shorts, tank tops, gloves, brunette ponytails, expressions fixed in fierce concentration. A referee, a huge man in black and white, circled with them, vigilant, impassive. The women edged closer, and then the punches started flying.

Max had seen plenty of hockey fights, but this was different. Those were big men in helmets and heavy padding, far away. She’d watched boxing on TV, but this was different from that, too. That was remote, cleaner somehow, like a dance. Here, you could hear the hard crack of glove on flesh, the groan of springs under the mat, the heavy, irregular breathing of the boxers, the little grunts and sighs as they hit, and were hit. You could see the spray of sweat blasted away by the the impact of a glove. And these were the lightweights. Chloe was a welterweight.

Max pulled out her digital camera, occupied herself with taking photos. High zoom, high ISO, wide aperture. For a couple of minutes, she lost herself, hobbling around the ring trying to get just the right angle to capture a punch as it landed. Then the bell rang, and the fighters returned to their corners to rest. Max kept shooting, and in some way, she liked these photos better, the women still relatively fresh, their bodies damp with sweat while their eyes remained keen, alert, not entirely happy with the enforced break in the action.

The bell rang again, the fighting resumed, and the two women dodged and weaved and punched and blocked for the full eight minutes before one was summarily pronounced the winner by decision, although it wasn’t obvious to Max that one had been better than the other. Moments later, two new fighters took to the ring. Chloe would be up next. Max went over to watch her warm up.

Warming up consisted of attacking big pads held up by a fellow fighter, rhythmic, powerful punches landing hard with unerring precision. At eye level, just a few feet away, Max blinked involuntarily at the loud smack of glove on pad. Another hit, another flinch, and Max backed away a little. Chloe looked over at her, flashed a sly grin, threw another punch. She was enjoying herself. These were distinctly harder hits than the lightweights had delivered in the ring. Was Chloe really going to hit a woman she didn’t even know, in the face… like that?

She was. When Chloe’s turn came, she gave Max a wink, then hopped up through the ropes into the ring.

She was fighting a woman named Katherine, a little shorter, less reach, but more solidly built and a more experienced fighter. As they squared off, Max moved up to the edge of the ring and leaned against it. The bell rang, and she readied her camera. The lighting in the gym wasn’t great, too even and too bright in the background, but she just wanted one good shot of Chloe in full profile, tattoos sharply visible, in mid-punch.

It soon became clear that this would be a less technical fight than the previous ones. Both women were attacking hard, sacrificing defense to get at each other, taking and landing hard punches with surprising grace. Max found her shot midway through the first round, and she put her camera away, just wanting to watch. She could see why people paid big bucks for ringside seats at professional fights.

In the second round, the relentless pace started to catch up with the fighters. Advancing, retreating, and advancing again, Katherine feinted and distracted Chloe just long enough catch her full-force on the side of the face, forcing her to step sideways and back to keep her balance, her gloves held high in a reflexive guard while she recovered her footing. Max cringed involuntarily, then called out some encouragement. “Come on Chloe! You’re doing great!” She saw a slight smile appear on Chloe’s lips, her eyes never leaving her opponent, while she advanced again, this time more cautiously.

The bruising match continued through the second round, into the third. The flavor of it was shifting, both women slowing down a little, their punches growing more wild. Max watched them pull back for a while, eyeing each other, until Chloe stepped abruptly forward, sticking a jab through Katherine’s guard, once, twice. A third time, and Katherine retaliated, a left-right combo meant for Chloe’s head, but her aim was off and Chloe deflected the blows easily, weaving forward and then planting a solid hit to her body. Katherine grunted, off-balance, her arms wide, and Chloe followed up ferociously, three heavy blows to the head, and Katherine staggered, leaning back against the ropes, momentarily stunned.

Chloe raised her guard and stepped back slightly, casting a brief glance at the ref, who remained impassive. Her coach yelled from below. “You’ve got her, Chloe! Go for the KO!” Chloe stepped forward again, tentatively. Katherine found her feet, brought her hands up and threw a weak jab, to which Chloe responded with a flurry of punches, all connecting hard. Battered backward, Katherine lost herself, shrank away from Chloe and cowered against the ropes, her head down, one glove held up in a feeble non-defense. This was enough for the referee, and he stepped between them, his arms wide. Chloe dropped her gloves, stepping back. The fight was over, a knockout.

Katherine remained hunched, supporting herself uncertainly on the ropes. Max looked up into her face, expecting to see pain, or frustration, or anger, but she just looked lost. Spent, thoroughly beaten, and most of all, confused, her eyes unfocussed and empty. Her gaze lit on Max, briefly, but there was nothing there. She wasn’t really seeing. Watching the woman struggle to stand upright, wobble, and stumble again, Max felt slightly queasy. In the background, the referee briefly and unnecessarily held Chloe’s hand aloft.

And then Chloe dropped through the ropes, wrapping Max in a tight bear bug, filling her senses with sharp sweat and damp, intense heat, before mercifully letting go. “Was that awesome or what?!”

Max laughed, returning her full attention to her wife. “That was _awesome._ ”

“What a great fight! Can’t believe I got a KO.” Chloe was practically bouncing up and down. “She got me pretty good, too.” Chloe worked her jaw back and forth. “I’ll be feeling it tomorrow. Here, help me untie these.”

Grinning, Max inexpertly removed Chloe’s gloves, and Chloe stripped off the hand wraps beneath, eagerly flexing her fingers.

“I sure hope you got some good photos. I want a record of my first victory.”

“You know I did!”

“Sweet. Now I really, really need a beer. And a hamburger. And a shower. Maybe not in that order.”

“Deal. But first let’s go see how she’s doing,” Max said.

“Who?” Chloe blinked. “Oh, yeah. Ok.”

Her vanquished opponent had been helped down from the ring, and they found her laying, eyes shut, on one of the gym’s benches, her head on the lap of a slim, balding man in business attire, his jacket tossed aside, his tie loosened. His left hand, adorned with a simple gold wedding band, rested on her forehead. They were speaking quietly as Max and Chloe approached.

The man looked up at Chloe. “Speak of the devil,” he said.

Katherine’s eyes opened, and slid over to Chloe. “You have got one hell of a right hook,” she said.

Chloe smiled uncomfortably. “Yeah… so they tell me.”

Max half expected Chloe to apologize for beating to poor woman so savagely, but she supposed that wasn’t how it worked. It had been a fair fight. So instead Max asked, “How’re you feeling?”

Katherine sighed. “I’ve had worse.”

“It’s… not her first KO,” her husband added, sourly.

Katherine shrugged on the bench. “Gotta keep challenging yourself. I used to fight as light welterweight, decided to bulk up a bit… guess I wasn’t ready.”

“I dunno about that,” Chloe said. “You got me pretty hard in the second round, I was seeing stars for a second there.”

Katherine smiled. “That was a good hit. You need to work on your defense on the right.” Abruptly, she sat up. “Alright. I’m going to get cleaned up. Been a pleasure.” She stood and headed confidently for the locker room, but then veered to the left, steadying herself against a heavy bag.

“I’ll just…” Chloe muttered, and followed, taking her arm and leading her into the locker room.

Katherine’s husband looked up at Max, catching her gaze in a steady stare. “It’s hard to watch, you know?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head, looked down, busying himself packing Katherine’s things into a bag. Max went back to retrieve her own stuff, then sat, idly watching the next fight. Slowly, certainty crept up on her, certainty she didn’t want, but couldn’t deny.

Chloe returned, changed into street clothes, surprisingly fresh except for a red crescent forming around her right eye. “How’s she doing?” Max asked.

Chloe shrugged. “She’ll be ok. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Chloe… I…” Max sighed. “Shit.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to fight anymore.”

Chloe’s face hardened. She looked annoyed, but not angry. Not yet, anyway. “Whatever. You box, you get knocked around a little, it’s not a big deal. Take an advil.”

“I’m not sure that’s really true.”

“Plus you’re not exactly the poster child for workout safety, miss broadsided-at-a-crosswalk.”

“I know! But you didn’t see her right after, Chloe, it was really scary. You train and you spar and that’s cool, but at the end suddenly you’re just… beating somebody up. And it’ll go the other way, it’ll be you, sooner or later. No more fights. Promise me.”

Chloe looked away from her, her brow knit. Max knew she was the only person in the world who could tell Chloe no, like this, and not have it thrown right back in her face. A power she tried very hard not to abuse. “Ok,” Chloe said, finally, “it is… a little rough.” Then she turned. “Hey coach!” she yelled.

“Yeah Chloe?” he answered, not turning his attention from the current fight.

“Hanging up my gloves. It’s been fun.”

He turned to looked at her then, scowling. “What, you get rattled up there? You’re a good fighter, don’t give up so easy.” Then his eyes drifted over to Max, standing beside Chloe. “Ah, I get it,” he said, turning back to the fight, muttering something more which Max couldn’t hear.

* * *

The doorbell to the studio rang, jarring Max out of her photo-sorting trance. “Got it!” Chloe chimed, hopping up from her bench and disappearing out the door. A minute later, she returned, trailed by two burly guys in matching “Angelo’s Sports Equipment” polo shirts. One carried a ladder and a toolbox, the other wheeled a dolly with a huge box, big enough to stash a person inside. Maybe two.

“Right here,” Chloe said, pointing to the spot she’d cleared near her workbench. At the time she hadn’t told Max why, but it soon became clear. Twenty minutes later, a 100-pound punching bag hung suspended from the rafters, and the men filed out.

As soon as they were gone, Max voiced her objection. “Chloe… I thought we agreed.”

“We’re cool, it’s just for fun. I still want to hit stuff! Come on, let’s try it out.”

“Let’s?”

“Yeah, c’mere.”

Max walked over warily, and Chloe took her right hand, produced a bundle of stretchy fabric, and gently wrapped it around her knuckles and down to her wrist. Then she took Max’s left hand, and Max experimentally flexed her right into a fist. “Chloe, I don’t…”

“Just try it, nerd. Have you ever thrown a punch?”

“No.”

“Today’s the day. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Her hands wrapped, Max approached the bag, raised her fists. “What do I do?”

“Just hit it, girl! Hard as you can. You can’t hurt it.”

Hesitantly, Max punched the bag. Once, twice, little taps. It didn’t move at all. “Take that, vile bag,” she said.

“You can do better than that! Put your shoulder into it!” Chloe demonstrated, showing off a slow-motion power punch.

Max punched again, her fist impacting the bag with a satisfying thump. It rocked very slightly. “Ow,” she said, rubbing her knuckles.

“Yeah, that’s how it should feel!” Chloe cheered. “Widen that stance! More! One, two! One, two!”

Max punched. One, two. One, two. It was kind of fun.

Chloe continued her encouragement. “This bag was driving the car that hit you!”

Max whirled, landing a solid roundhouse kick on the side of the bag, setting it wobbling. She found herself balanced on her bad leg; it hurt, but she could live with it. It felt good to do something physical, after being laid up for so long.

“Damn! That’s cool, but you’re not allowed to kick in boxing.”

“So?” Max rocked back, planting a side kick in the center of the bag, visibly squishing it and pushing it away.

“Huh. Where’d you learn those moves?”

“I dunno.” Max threw more punches, moving around the bag. “I’d say it passes inspection,” she said finally, her breath short.

“Cool, gimme my hand wraps back. I want to give it a shot.”

“No,” said Max, raising her fists again. “I’m not done.”


	4. Epilogue

Max looked down at herself, frowning. “T-shirt and jeans really aren’t the right getup for this,” she said, panting. A line of sweat edged her hair, which she smoothed it back with one hand.

Easily solved, Chloe thought. “Take ‘em off!”

Max looked at her skeptically, then glanced over at the studio’s big, uncovered windows.

“Whatever, nobody’s gonna see you,” Chloe said. Was that really true? “Fine. Here.” She dug in her gym bag and produced her shorts and a tank top, at which Max wrinkled her nose. “They’re clean!” Chloe insisted.   


Max took them and quickly changed, left her feet bare, then put her hair back in a pony tail, suddenly looking the part of a boxer, if a little skinny. Her left shin featured a long, pink scar where the surgeon had gone in, but otherwise no trace of her injuries remained.

“Pretty hot,” Chloe said. “Need some tats though, cover up that scar at least.”

Max smiled, shaking her head. Chloe had been encouraging her to get inked for years, but it had stopped being serious long ago. Max turned back to the heavy bag. “Gimme some pointers,” she said.

“With pleasure.” Chloe walked her through a basic stance and the principal punches. As Max tried them out, Chloe stood close, occasionally taking her shoulders and rotating them, or lightly moving a hand up or down between punches, her touch lingering a little longer each time. She loved everything about this.

“Chloe!” Max giggled, as Chloe semi-automatically ran a hand down her back. “This is my first workout in three months. Don’t distract me.”

Chloe grinned at her. “Sorry.” Not at all sorry, but she left Max to continue working on the bag, sauntering over to Max’s desk. She picked up the studio camera, went to the equipment rack, fit a 50mm prime lens. She might not have Max’s eye, but she’d played caddy enough times to know all the gear like the back of her hand. She had, in fact, taken a few of the pieces in the Maxine Price Collection herself; it was their little secret.

She was behind Max, but the shutter click was plainly audible. “Really?” Max said, not looking away from the bag. “A Study in Ineptitude, Chloe E. Price, color photographs.”

“You’re pretty good for a first timer! Anyway, all the photos of you are selfies. I want something different.”

“Just a scrawny geek, Chloe.”

Chloe laughed, the standard riposte implied, unnecessary. “Yup,” she said, instead.

As Max’s endurance wore down, Chloe egged her on. Just a few more minutes. As long as you can raise one arm, you can throw a punch. Keep those feet moving. This was how you got past modest exercise into real conditioning. Eventually Max just stopped moving, her head down, shoulders drooping, arms hanging lose. “Mercy,” she said, finally, a bead of sweat running down her temple.

“Mercy. Can I have my hand wraps back now?”

Wordlessly, Max began unwrap her hands, slowly, with effort, her head and shoulders still slumped. Chloe raised the camera, clicked the shutter a final time. Here was the shot, the exhausted warrior, a photographic cliché, but with good reason. Max had always been tougher than she looked, it just wasn’t in her style, but here, at the end of her rope, you could see it. The steady, determined focus in her eyes, even as she fumbled with a simple cloth wrap. “Did I ever tell you, you’re beautiful when you’re debilitated,” Chloe said, smirking.

The studio camera was permanently synced to Max’s workstation, and this last photo now filled the large monitor on her desk. Max looked over at it. “I look about how I feel. What a mess.”

“That’s sort of the point? What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?”

Max huffed, looking down at the scar on her leg, concealing a hybrid of bone and synthetic polymer. “Maybe.” She looked up at Chloe, thoughtful. "I'm not so sure."


End file.
